It was gone.

Picard looked up at the screen and smiled. Hawk shot a brief, sorrowful glance at the motionless Data, whose condition was impossible to diagnose at the moment. I hope I’ll get to thank you, my friend.

Turning back to his instrument panel, Hawk grinned. “Looks like it worked. And their cloaking field is down as well.”

“One of the Romulan Empire’s most closely held secrets is now on display for the entire Chiarosan electorate to see.”

“Maybe they’ll petition Ruardh to hold a recall election over it,” Hawk speculated.

Picard shook his head wearily. “First Protector Ruardh has her own difficulties with the Federation at the moment,” he said, recalling the still‑unresolved custody battle over Grelun. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s not enough left of that singularity to prove that the Romulans were ever up to any mischief here in the first place.”

Hawk realized that Picard was probably right. “The Tal Shiar would probably see to that,” he said quietly.

The captain shot a stern glance at him, and for a moment Hawk feared that he had said too much. Had Picard begun to wonder how much Zweller had told him about Section 31’s secret agenda in the Geminus Gulf?

Some spy I’d make,Hawk thought, chiding himself.

Whatever the captain’s thoughts, all he said was, “Set a course for the Enterprise,Mr. Hawk. Best possible speed.”

And then, to Hawk’s shock and chagrin, the captain’s expression suddenly went slack, and he fell face forward across the instrument panel.

Koval and his two guards sparkled into existence in the warbird Thrai Kaleh’s principal transporter room. A centurion awaited him there, a youthful but able officer whose name escaped Koval at the moment. It occurred to him that he had been having entirely too many memory lapses of late, and made a mental note to consult his physician about the problem at the first convenient opportunity.

The young centurion was out of breath, and looked nearly panic‑stricken. Koval had never had much patience with useless emotional displays. “Out with it. What is wrong?”

“Chairman Koval, the subspace phenomenon . . . the containment facility . . .”

Koval grew uneasy. “Yes?”

“Sir, they are both gone!”

That can’t be,Koval thought, shoving past the centurion and repeating the words in his mind like a mantra until he reached the central control room. The viewscreen there graphically confirmed the centurion’s improbable story. Koval stood in the center of the chamber for the next several minutes, quietly contemplating his next move.

“The Federation vessel is obviously responsible,” Subcenturion V’Hari said from behind one of the weapons consoles. “I respectfully suggest that we attack the Enterpriseimmediately.”

Such an action struck Koval as perhaps futile and certainly counterproductive. To fight over a secret thing, even a secret vanishedthing, was to admit that it had existed–and that it had been a threat to one’s adversaries–in the first place. Another factor to consider was that the Chiarosans would probably soon learn of the singularity‑containment facility, as well as the efforts of the Romulan Star Empire to conceal it from them. Who knew how these barbarians might react? The revelation of a hitherto covert Romulan military presence might make the Empire’s newest protectorate almost impossible to control. Unless the Tal Shiar covered things up very carefully.

“No,” Koval told his subordinate. “I have an alternate plan. Please contact First Protector Ruardh immediately.”

Picard’s eyes fluttered open, revealing the muted blues and grays of the Enterprise’s sickbay, which were broken up by the dull orange glow of an overhead sensor cluster. He looked down past his chin and saw that he was lying on his back, his chest covered by a clamshelllike piece of equipment which he recognized as a surgical support structure. A quartet of figures wearing scarlet masks and gowns worked with feverish efficiency over the device, performing intricate maneuvers, manipulating tricorders, fetching, using, then discarding various surgical and diagnostic instruments. Though his vision was distorted by the azure glow of a sterilizing medical forcefield, he quickly recognized the lead surgeon’s flashing green eyes as those of Dr. Beverly Crusher.

“He’s conscious, Dr. Crusher,” said a member of the trauma team. Picard recognized the gruff voice of Dr. Gomp.

“Thank God,” Crusher said quietly.

“No brain damage,” someone else said. “I think we got to him in time.”

“Justin time,” Crusher responded. “Let’s get him stabilized. Then I need to know the extent of the damage to his heart.”

“Done,” said Ogawa, who was staring intently at a medical tricorder. “The heart’s bio‑regulator looks to be completely fused, but it seems to be the only component that’s suffered damage. I’m already downloading the replicator specifications for a replacement.” Then she headed for one of the adjacent labs, the Tellarite physician accompanying her.

“Beverly,” Picard said, his voice a parched croak. He was mildly surprised to find that he could speak at all.

“It looks like you beat the singularity after all, Jean‑Luc. Despite having ignored your kindly doctor’s advice.” The surgical mask couldn’t conceal her smile.

“How are Hawk and Data?”

“Hawk came through the mission just fine, though I think your injuries scared the hell out of him. Data was . . . shut off somehow. Geordi thinks he entered some sort of protective shutdown mode while linked to the scoutship’s systems. But he also thinks he’ll have him on his feet again in a few hours.”

Picard nodded, relieved; he owed much to the two officers who had braved the singularity’s dangers at his side. With the immediate peril behind him, he felt exhausted, and was sorely tempted to rest. But even though his throat felt as dry as the Chiarosan Dayside, there were still questions he needed to ask.

“The referendum?”

“From what Deanna told me, everything’s over but the shouting down on Chiaros IV. The long and short of it is this: We’d better have our bags packed within the next twenty minutes. Or else.”

Grelun,he thought with an inward groan. The matter of the rebel leader’s asylum plea had yet to be resolved.

“Have Admiral Batanides and Commander Zweller returned to the ship?” Picard said as Nurse Ogawa returned, a small electronic device in her hand.

Crusher shook her head. “No. But I think their shuttle is due back any time now.”

He silently cursed his immobility. He wanted to leap up and run to the shuttlebay, but he knew that this wasn’t an option while his chest cavity was clamped open beneath the sterile surgical field. “I need to see them as soon as they’re aboard. Particularly Commander Zweller.”

“What you need,” Crusher said sternly, “is to sit absolutely still for the next few minutes so I can repair the damage you did to your artificial heart.”

Picard sighed with frustration, then relented. “Fine. But after that–”

“No promises,” she said, interrupting him. It occurred to him that Crusher was probably the only person on the entire ship to whom he allowed that privilege. “After the operation, we’ll see.”

His dry throat made his next words come out in a sandpapery rasp. “Doctor, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you confine me to sickbay.”

“I don’t negotiate, Jean‑Luc,” she said, holding up a hypospray admonishingly. “Why are you in such a hurry, anyway?”

“Beverly, Corey Zweller and I once took a foolish risk by fighting a trio of very hostile Nausicaans. That’s why there’s an artificial heart in my chest today. Forty years later, Zweller is stillrunning foolish risks. Only now, he’s gambling with the lives of his colleagues. Whole sectors of space. An entire civilization.Had the Romulans succeeded in keeping that subspace singularity, his political gamesmanship might even have jeopardized the entire universe.